A Bit Not Good
by ineffabletwaddle
Summary: The thing is, John Watson wasn't supposed to leave him behind.


He is yelling. It grates on my eardrums and I narrow my eyes, pull myself up to my full height, but to no avail.

He punches me. My head snaps back, across the nose, but the angle was wrong, a little too to the left, fist not properly clenched, thumb inside. No nasal fracture.

Moron.

You would have broken it, if you had ever been trying.

Lestrade in the distance, worried and running, but now there's gunmetal in my hand, cold, grooved- your gun, the Browning- and I am aiming it at this pathetic low-life, because he is infuriating. He cowers, because all criminals are boring, cowards, in the end.

"Shut up," I hiss. "The game is up. You have lost, because you are stupid. Now go quietly and contain yourself, you imbecile."

I turn and a wet projectile lands near my ear. Saliva. I will not turn. You would not have wanted me to, I think.

"What happened to your doctor, then, freak?" the voice calls after me. "Did he leave you too?"

Just words, you'd say. Can't hurt you. And they didn't, before you came along and made me human.

I turn and swing the blunt edge of the gun across his forehead and there's a satisfying crack of bone against metal.

I try, John. But I am not you.

…...

People don't change, I've found. They mourn and move on.

I am truly not like them.

I try, for your sake. I say "Hello," to Mrs. Hudson. I don't scream at her when I can't find my skull and there is no dust on the ledge.

I find that the idea of the skull doesn't comfort me much anyways. It's a poor substitute for a friend.

I would much rather talk to you.

…...

I continue existing, just for you, but I am being generous, because you deserve nothing. You left me John and that is unforgivable, because you were not allowed to leave me behind.

Oh. Is this how you felt?

But I was not gone John. It was necessary, to pretend, so that you might be saved and surely you appreciate how important, how noble, a cause that was.

But you, you died for no purpose, you simply threw away your life on nothing, how dare you.

I never knew you were such an idiot.  
…...

Lestrade is gruff and uneasy with emotions. We get along well now, better than ever. He's not so dull as the rest of them, the ones with their fake smiles, flat cheeks, straight eyebrows, why do you even bother to try and fool me.

They don't care for me. Obviously. But they cared for you and now I must suffer through their misguided attempts at affection. At sympathy.

Or is it pity?

It doesn't matter. I suffer in silence.

…...

I still don't care about all of their lives, you know. About the boring, everyday people.

I can't force myself to do that, I can simply pretend.

I am a wonderful actor.

…...

I only tell Anderson off twice a day. I keep the mental tally carefully.

Molly Hooper I avoid like the plague, because she inexplicably wants to comfort me and the very idea is repulsive.

I even smile coldly at Sally, though she does not insult me anymore.

I prefered her insults. Their absence is a cruel reminder that something is not right and she, vindictive that she is, withholds even the semblance of normalcy from me.

You'd shake your head, say she was trying to be nice. That they all were, Molly and Lestrade, Sally and- well. Maybe not Anderson.

You always did think better of people. Maybe you were right. But I prefer to think it was just the two of us, against the chaotic, cruel world, because then you would belong only to me.  
…...

You do belong only to me.

Your girlfriends and relatives, all are irrelevant.

You were mine.

And I am always yours.  
...

I am not nice to Mycroft, when he slinks in, umbrella and 14 contingency plans to deal with my grief in hand, because that is simply asking for too much.

You never really liked him anyways.

You just put up with him to protect me.

The both of you, never trusting me to take a step alone.

…...

I still remember holding your hand when you died.

I think I did that.

I'm not sure anymore.  
…...

No, Mycroft has nothing to worry about.

Not much anyways.

I smoke pack after pack of cigarettes. There is no one to stop me and breathing has gone from being boring to insufferable.

But I don't touch the little box under my bed, with it's hypnotic pull and white powder.

You say I am better than that.

Well. Maybe I was.

I can hold out for a little longer, I think.

…...

You took a bullet for me, that day. Autumn, cold, your thin jacket and a sniper I should have seen.

But you didn't think, you idiot, because if you had, you would have realized that there was no purpose to preserving me without you, that when I saved you, all those years ago, I knew you'd be fine, because you were strong but I am not. So you died for nothing.

I miss you John.

I was not worth that.

I never will be.

…...

Years pass, I think, days are fluid, time is irrelevant and everything is dull.

I still talk out loud about cases and criminals, experiments and music and you nod quietly from your armchair. I play the violin and you smile. I shoot the walls and you shake your head and sigh. Sometimes you reverse it, because you are never predictable. My tea grows cold as I lose myself in the enigma, the mystery of you, the one that I still don't understand and everything is clear, pristine, beautiful-

Until someone walks in, calls, breaks the spell.

/They/ pity me.

They pity me because I forget, but it is silly of them, for those moments, when we are back at 221B and the outside world fades, when I forget that you are not in your armchair and never will be again-

Well.

Those are the best moments.

A bit not good, I think you'd say.  
...


End file.
